They rode through the night, morning, and late into the next afternoon.
Bray let Yarrow sleep for much of the trip, though he’d asked her to wake him. He needed the rest more, and she was fairly certain sleep would elude her, anyway. She was too conscious of his proximity. It was magnetic. Her skin was awake in a way it had not been for many long months.
The mere sound of his breathing brought a smile to her lips. When his eyes roved beneath their lids, she wondered what he might be dreaming. What pictures might that mind be conjuring, now that it was firing again?
I remember this feeling, she thought again and again, as she stared at his face, gaunt but devastating; his hands, mutilated yet still clever; his dark hair, curlier for having been lopped short. She drank him in, and drank him in—unabashedly, deeply, until she was drunk on him.
Their gig cut through the marshes south of Accord. The day was warm when the sun shone, and cool when it did not. The air smelt foul from all the stagnant water, but it was still far preferable to the foulness of the city.
And the quiet—there were no towns here in the bogs. No crowds, no bells, no booming cannons. Just the resonant call of the bullfrogs and the skittering of insects.
The sun had already passed its zenith when Yarrow woke with a start. He seemed momentarily confused, his brow furrowed as he gazed around him.
“You didn’t wake me,” he said, his voice thick with sleep.
“I wasn’t tired.”
His eyes narrowed in what, for Yarrow, might count as a glare. “You look exhausted.”
“Why, thank you,” Bray said archly. “You always know just what to say.” She couldn’t begin to feign insult, however. A glance at his dismayed expression had her laughing. “Spirits, I missed you,” she said, the words passing unconsciously from her tongue.
His smile was all cheekbones. “And I you.”
Their gazes caught, and Bray could not look away. Her blood warmed beneath her skin, and she became unusually mindful of her own lips.
He cleared his throat after an endless second. “So, where are we?”
“Not far from Lampton. We’ll have to stop there, rest the horse.” And bathe. She was all too aware of her own odor. Yarrow smelt fantastic, somehow, which seemed truly unfair.
He began the slow process of stretching out his legs and arms, rubbing the muscles in a methodical way. He grimaced every now and again.
“We’ve stayed there once before, haven’t we?” he said. “On our first trip to Accord.”
“Yes.” She smiled at the memory. He had proposed teaching her the Ada Chae at the inn at Lampton. It had been a turning point for them.
It was so unspeakably wonderful that he remembered, too. The Yarrow who had made the final sacrifice would not have recalled this.
He took the reins from her, and she was grateful for the chance to stretch her uninjured arm. Her broken wrist throbbed in time with her heartbeat, and her ribs twinged with each breath. But she barely noticed.
Lampton came into view as they crested a hill. It was a medium-sized town, primarily a stopping point between Accord and all the cities to the south. Bray had stayed there often, with Peer and Adearre.
“What is that up there?” Yarrow asked, pointing to the side of the road.
Bray’s mood darkened. “Quade must have come this way.”
Yarrow pulled the gig over, and Bray leapt to the ground. The landing sent a jolt of pain up her side. She bit back a whimper and joined Yarrow. The roadside was loud with the buzzing of flies—it sounded like a roar in Bray’s ears.
She covered her mouth and nose with her hand, to block the smell.
The horse’s head had been cleanly severed at the neck. No doubt, Quade had used that vicious scimitar he wore on his back.
The animal’s entrails had been pulled from its belly and shaped into a gruesome arrow, which pointed up the road, towards the town itself.
Bray swallowed against the stomach acid rising into her throat. She did not want to know what Quade had left for them in the village. Carnage, no doubt. A taunt.
And they could do no good for the people of Lampton. She needn’t investigate; there was no question who had passed through here and left them a message in blood. And he wouldn’t be here still. Quade would never risk sleeping in a place after announcing his presence.
Yarrow appeared troubled, his gaze locked on the distant town. “It might not be safe,” he said.
She nodded. “And there’s no need to ask questions. We already know where he’s going.”
“Can we go around?”
“Yes,” she said. “I think that would be best. We have provisions enough for a few days. There’s a small river nearby.”
She and Adearre had gone swimming near here, a lifetime ago. Peer had looked on grumpily from the bank, avoiding the water they splashed his way. They might not have taunted him so, if he’d at least tried to learn how to swim.
The bright happiness of that memory meshed strangely with the bleakness of the current moment. She had the sound of Adearre’s unbridled laughter in her head, and the smell of carrion in her nose. She shook herself.
They climbed back into the gig, Bray sparing one last pitying glance for Lampton. Perhaps it was her imagination, but the village appeared unnaturally shadowed, motionless. Like a held breath.
They rode into the grass, the gig jockeying over uneven ground. Her eyes watered at the constant jostling of her broken bones, but it was not a long trip.
The river was within a small wood, a few leagues west of town. By the time they reached it, evening had settled around them, the air cooling.
Bray set up the tent while Yarrow saw to the horse. It was a peaceful place. The burble of the stream coupled with the rustling of leaves, humming a kind of sweet, sleepy song.
But Bray did not want to sleep yet. She had more pressing desires.
“I’m going to bathe,” she announced, feeling downright bold. “I bought soap in Accord.”
Yarrow had been bent over, breaking up kindling. He straightened. She fancied she could see his intake of breath even from behind.
“Join me if you like,” she said, and padded down to the water. She heard him follow, and her pulse surged. She removed her sling and unwrapped her wrist as she went.
They formed a kind of stand-off on the bank of the river, eyes locked. He raised his dark brows at her, smiling slightly. It seemed like a challenge, so she raised her own brows in imitation and began to unbutton her dress.
He doffed his shirt and tossed it aside. She dumped her petticoat. He managed to take off his shoes and socks without ever breaking eye contact. She replicated the feat. He dropped his trousers, so that he stood in only thin cotton drawers.
His face was a dare.
She pursed her lips at him, then shimmied out of her chemise. The cool breeze brushed her bare skin and she shivered, but to cross her arms would seem to mean losing this little unspoken contest of theirs.
He sucked a breath and dropped his undergarments.
Bray grinned. In fact, she’d grinned more in the last few hours than she had in the past year. Her spirit was light as air. She grabbed her soap and leapt into the river.
She expected the shock of cold water, but the river was actually a touch warmer than the air. There came a splash as Yarrow joined her.
Bray dunked under the water and smoothed her hair from her face as she resurfaced. The soap was slippery, and she struggled to keep hold of it as she created a lather in her hands.
“Catch,” she said, tossing the bar to Yarrow.
They were both too distracted to be thorough in their ablutions. Their limbs looked ghostly beneath the surface of the water, pale and dappled with patches of dusk-light. Yarrow’s gaze devoured her.
Unable to bear another moment of separation, she swam to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. The water made her light, so he could hold her despite his weakened state.
Their skin met, and her eyelids fluttered clo
sed in satisfaction. He trailed light kisses up her neck and then whispered in her ear, “Are you too injured?”
Her eyes snapped open. “Certainly not. Do you have the energy?”
He answered with a thoroughly energetic kiss. She wrapped herself around him, twining her fingers in his hair. The river buoyed them, the gentle rapids murmuring approval. And she burned.
With an effort, Bray disentangled herself. She took Yarrow’s hand and towed him to shore. They darted into their tent, damp skin prickling in the breeze.
Yarrow had a laugh in his eyes as he wrung wetness from her sopping hair. River water trickled down their bare chests. She bit her lip, and his gaze intensified. Spirits, how she adored those expressive gray eyes of his.
Their mouths clashed. Their hands explored.
I remember this, she thought yet again. But somehow, it also felt like a first. Perhaps because she’d believed she would never have this again. Or because it had simply been so long.
They had to be gentle with each other, to accommodate their broken and weary bodied, but that was alright. They moved slowly together, fingers clasped, mouths rarely parting.
She succumbed to sensation, forgetting her months of grief, her difficult history with intimacy, and the bloody path that lay before them.
“Spirits, how I love you,” he breathed into her mouth.
She nipped his lip and studied his face, taking pleasure in his pleasure. His features were arranged in unselfconscious bliss.
Bray released his hand and trailed her fingers up the side of his face. “Never leave me again,” she whispered.
“Never,” he promised.
Afterwards, they remained intertwined, neither wishing to be parted.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Over time, blood was corrosive. That’s why careful blade care was so important to the longevity of fine weapons.
Quade had always been meticulous in such matters. He believed firmly that a man should have his fun, but never lose himself to it. Live joyfully, yet be attentive.
He had learned this from his father, a man who took great delight in life, but whose affairs were always in order.
Delton Asher had loved the sea with a fierceness that Quade could never comprehend. He built boats in his free time—what little he had—because it brought him pleasure to work with his hands. He would hum or whistle as he sawed, sanded, and lacquered. But then he seemed just as happy when the time came to sweep up.
When Quade thought of his father, he recalled the rasp of sandpaper and the smell of the sea air.
“I’d spend all day building and sailing, if I could,” he’d once said.
“Why don’t you?” Quade had asked, and it had surprised them both. Quade rarely expressed interest in anyone who wasn’t long dead.
“I have a job to work and a family to care for.”
“Doesn’t that make you angry?”
“Of course not,” he’d said. And he’d meant it. “There’s no sense in resenting what must be done. Better to decide to enjoy yourself in all pursuits.”
But then, there wasn’t much that upset Delton Asher. He had a deeper capacity for contentment than most people. You could feel it radiating off of him, that innate and impenetrable happiness. It had baffled and infuriated Quade, to look into his father’s eyes and see such simple joy. What did Delton Asher have to be so happy about? A difficult, low-paying job? A cramped house always in disrepair? A dull-witted wife? A dour daughter and a son who loathed him?
Despite all of this, he was a man at peace. Quade had hated him for it because he was never at peace.
Perhaps that was why he’d killed the man. Quade did not like things he could not understand.
But still, he had learned many lessons from his father. He could smell a storm on the air, and he knew the proper way to step a mast, and he respected the fact that the clean-up was as important as the task itself.
That was why he wiped the gore from his swords so thoroughly, before starting the more enjoyable undertaking ahead of him.
He was a few hours away from the train station, where he would catch a ride to the ports of Andle. This juncture could not quite be called a town; it was more aptly a collection of small farms.
Killing everyone who lived here had been all too easy. Quade never felt guilt when he killed—regret, occasionally, but not guilt. However, he felt most justified when his victims failed to fight back. If a man, woman, or child allowed themselves to be cut down so easily, then Quade’s actions were akin to natural selection. He was doing the human species a favor.
Perhaps it was the memory of his father that had him humming as he worked. He shucked aside the scarecrows and mounted the bodies one at a time.
He placed the little girl front and center, knowing it would disturb Bray Marron the most. The mere prospect had his lip curling. He was increasingly glad he hadn’t killed her when he’d had the opportunity. It was so much more fun this way—leaving these macabre breadcrumbs for her to follow.
After all, there was no purpose in performing without an audience. And Quade wanted to perform; he wanted to revel in the fact that he was, for the first time since boyhood, set free.
There was no mask upon his face. For once, he inspired the terror he deserved. He was a wolf that had shed its sheep’s clothing, and was lighter for abandoning the deception.
And with all of his careful plans in shambles, all of his years of preparation ruined, he no longer had reason to rein in his less-civilized urges. If he could not make these people his, what was their purpose?
Quade missed his gift. He missed the ease of it, and the adoration. There was an uncommon pleasure in hurting a person and forcing her to like it. He did not intend to spend the rest of his days without such delights. No, he would demand that his gift be returned.
But in the meantime, he might as well make merry. There’s no sense in resenting what must be done. Better to decide to enjoy yourself in all pursuits.
Quade took several steps back, crossed his arms before his chest, and admired his work. Twelve bodies stood like sign-posts on the side of the road.
It was a gruesome tableau, but he suspected he could still improve upon it. Pulling the knife from his belt, he approached the corpses. He ripped away the shirts of the four men at the center.
With his tongue peeping between his lips, he began to carve:
B
The bodies were fresh, so they bled freely. He would have another blade to clean soon.
R
He wondered how far behind she was. He’d slept little, and never in a town. He had run three horses to death already.
A
She would not treat her animals so unkindly, but neither would she dally. He expected he was a day in the lead.
Y
With the last letter finished, he stepped back to once again assess the display. He frowned. It would have looked better if he’d branded the letters into the flesh.
Still, she would not miss his call to her.
He glanced over his shoulder, down the empty road.
Come and find me, little puppet.
A line of civilians still wrapped around the building. And this represented just one neighborhood—a drop in the blighting bucket.
Fernie rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Why, oh why, did the Spirits choose him?
“Next,” Clea said.
A gray-haired woman shuffled forward, wearing a tattered shawl and sporting a vicious-looking shiner.
“Here you go, ma’am,” Clea said, handing over a small bundle of provisions. “Your name and address?”
“Hellise Jollen,” the woman answered, examining the quarter loaf of bread Clea offered. “7273 Allen Ave.”
Fernie gazed through the woman’s shrewd eyes, into her mind. He could sense the traces of Quade there; his shadow still lingered in the corners, like dust bunnies along a baseboard. But there was not much of him. This woman must be a fighter.
He narrowed his eyes, wipin
g Quade clean from her mind. This process had grown easier. As Ko-Jin always said, ‘Practice makes proficient.’ Not that Fernie wanted to think of him. Stupid, ‘I’ll just skip off into the sunset and leave you here’ Ko-Jin.
The old woman blinked slowly, her attention swiveling to Fernie. She had an unsettling gaze—one eye was a deep, dark blue, the other light as bread mold.
“Do you understand what just happened?” he asked. He tried not to sound bored. Okay, no, he wasn’t really trying. But what did people expect?
“You just removed that Asher villain from my head,” she said.
“Yes, I did,” Fernie said. “Your mind is your own again, but not everyone is clean. If you talk to the wrong people, he can enter your thoughts again. So try to isolate yourself as much as possible over the next week, and if someone talks about Quade Asher, cover your ears. Do you understand?”
“I understand, young man,” Hellise Jollen said, tucking her bread into her basket. “It’s a good thing you’re doing.”
“Thanks,” Fernie said.
“Course, if it weren’t for your kind—you Chisanta tricksters—there wouldn’t be a need for it, would there? Think on that, young man.”
“Thanks,” Fernie said again, more dryly. He watched the old woman shuffle to the exit with a frown.
“Hope the old bat doesn’t need me a second time. Might not feel too keen to help,” he grumbled to Clea.
She shrugged. “Can’t really blame them, though, can we? Quade was Chisanta. We made this mess, in a way.”
“Not me. Not you,” Fernie protested. They couldn’t have made this mess. It had made them.
She bobbled her head as if to half-accept his point. “Perhaps, but I can’t fault people for resenting our kind.”
He slapped his hand against his bare neck. “Whose kind, exactly?”
Again, she shrugged, her attention returning to the line of civilians. “Next.”
A young Adourran stepped forward. Quade’s blackness consumed him. Fernie could see his bevolder looking out through this pair of slitted brown eyes. A spasm of fear hit him in the gut—as it had, on and off, all day long.
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